


Gunslinger

by Discreet



Category: Worm - Wildbow
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 17:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12822801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Discreet/pseuds/Discreet
Summary: Miss Militia gets in a gunfight.





	Gunslinger

Winter made for the worst stakeouts. Steam leaked out from under Hannah's bandana mask. She was careful with her breathing, slow and steady. It would be downright embarrassing if she blew her cover by puffing out too much steam.

It was maybe an unnecessary precaution given Hannah's position. She was situated on a rooftop, a good 200 meters from the house she was staking out. A large enough distance and with enough beat-up suburban homes between them that it'd be hard to notice the speck of Miss Militia.

Overly cautious, maybe, but Hannah preferred not to take any chances. The house she was watching had been taken over by Merchants, and according to Hannah's informant, they were using it as a meth lab. One of many, Hannah knew. If she stamped this one out, then five more would sprout somewhere else.

So as much as it pained her, Hannah didn't move in to shut the place down. She was aiming for bigger fish. Skidmark. Her informant had told her that the Merchants were trying to get their meth labs in order after a recent fuck-up had caused one to go up in flames. There would be inspections.

And that was Hannah's chance. To end the nuisance that was the Merchants once and for all. She adjusted the scope mounted on her rifle, sweeping a cyclopean gaze over the perimeter of the house.

It was actually quite a sizable home, two stories with room for an attic. It must have been quite the nice place to live before the whole neighborhood had gone to shit. Now it was just one of many poorly kept houses. Paint peeled off its sides, the windows were boarded up, and the mailbox had been knocked askew, bowed forward so that whatever mail went in would just fall out.

The only signs that the place was occupied at all was the glow of light inside and the occasional flicker of a shadow.

Hannah let out a long, slow breath. She watched. She waited.

She heard the rumble of a car amidst the silence of winter. Hannah turned to track it through the scope.

A van. She aimed at the driver and failed to recognize the man, but he had the telltale marks of a veteran Merchant. Tattoos and piercings covered his face in an incomprehensible pattern. He had neon green hair, a fist imprinted on his cheek, nose rings through either nostril, and lines inked into his chin like cartoonish drool.

Hannah kept her grip on the rifle loose, but firm.

The van pulled up in front to the Merchant's house, and honked loudly, a discordant sound in the quiet neighborhood. One of the Merchants stuck his head out from the house, then grinned at the sight of the van. He bounded down the yard, hollering something. He was barely dressed, wearing only boxers, a wifebeater and leather combat boots.

He reached the van just as the tattooed man stepped out of the van. The tattooed seemed much less excited to see his fellow Merchant.

Hannah kept her breathing steady. The two men seemed to be having a conversation of sorts. The wifebeater was gesturing wildly with his hands while the tattooed man only nodded his head. Hannah really ought to learn how to lip-read. Something to do for later.

The two Merchants were finally wrapping up their conversation, the wifebeater clapping his hands with obvious glee. Together, they walked around to the back of the van and opened it up.

The wifebeater hollered something, even leapt and pumped his fist, but the tattooed man was much more composed. He barked something, harsh and short.

From the van, two people emerged.

Hannah felt the cold seep into her skin.

Neither of them were Skidmark. Or Squealer, or Mush, or any of the higher-ups in the Merchants.

They were girls.

They staggered out of the van, gussied up in gaudy fur coats and had too much makeup on their faces. They had trouble standing up straight, but the tattooed man didn't seem to care. He barked another order at the two, making them flinch, forcing them to move. The wifebeater was rubbing his hands together, giggling like a boy on a Christmas.

Hannah keyed her comms unit, and when she spoke her voice was tight. "Console, I have a situation here. Going to need some backup."

"Copy that, Miss Militia," a PRT officer answered. "We can have a squad there in thirty minutes. What's the situation?"

"Thirty minutes is too long." Miss Militia grit her teeth. The two Merchants were marching the girls towards the house. "We have a hostage situation. Two girls in Merchant hands."

"Stand by, Miss Militia. We'll get to you."

"What about Armsmaster? Dauntless? Battery?"

"Battery is on her way. She's twenty-five minutes out."

"Twenty-five." Hannah growled the word.

"Weather's slowing her down."

Hannah had heard enough; she cut the line off, returning her cheek to the rifle’s stock. The girls were nearly at the door, the two Merchants forcing them forward. They were 200 meters away. An easy shot for Hannah. But rubber bullets wouldn't be effective at this range. They'd hurt, but they wouldn't stop the Merchants.

If she wanted to put them down, she would need live rounds.

The Merchants pushed the girls into the house. The door slammed shut behind them.

Hannah's jaw clenched; she had taken too long to decide. She had put herself in a bad position to react as well. She should've staked out from somewhere closer. Mistakes, stupid mistakes. Hannah shook her head.

She'd take responsibility for it the only way she knew how.

The scoped rifle dissipated into a green coil of energy, whipping away from her hands and reforming as a pistol in the holster at her hip. Hannah was already moving; she hopped the edge of the roof, landed on the fire escape and took the steps down four at a time. The building was only five stories tall, but in Hannah's mind that was four stories too many.

She took off running the moment her boots hit the snow. She made a beeline for the Merchant's meth lab, hopping over a fence and cutting through someone's yard. Her breath came in sharp and short, the cold air biting at her lungs, but that didn't slow Hannah down. It was like a fire at her heels.

She jumped another fence and landed on the street.

No reaction from the Merchant's house. Good and bad. Good because it made her approach easier. Bad because it meant their attention was elsewhere.

Her weapon shifted again in a swirl of green energy; it reformed into her hands as a shotgun. Bean-bag ammunition.

She ran, slower, quieter than before, and low to the ground. She made it to the door. Still no sign that the Merchants had noticed her.

She braced herself against the wall and strained her ears to listen. Hard to know for certain how many were inside, how many were just behind the door. She had only started the stakeout this morning. Not her fault, but it still somehow felt like a mistake.

Voices burbled out from the walls, excited hoots and jeers.

Hannah guessed about five.

Not ideal.

Hannah sucked in a breath. Held it. And then let it out.

She whirled around and jammed the shotgun against the door. Breaching round, she thought.

She pulled the trigger, blasted the lock and kicked the door down. It slammed back on its hinges, wood splintered.

There were six inside a living room. Four were seated on couches, surrounding one of the girls. Two others were leaned against the wall drinking beers. They all looked up at Miss Militia, mouths agape.

A flashbang was already arcing out of her hand.

The Merchants shouted, scrambled for guns stuck in waistbands. The flashbang bounced once and went off.

Miss Militia popped out from cover, the shotgun belting out bean-bag rounds. _Thump. Thump._ The two Merchants standing slammed back against the wall and slumped.

A gunshot went wild into the air. A Merchant on the couch—the wifebeater—had pulled his gun free, but his other hand covered his eyes, still recovering from the flash. He was firing blind. Miss Militia put him down next, not even needing to pump her shotgun, a fresh shell flashing into the chamber with only a shift of her green energy.

She aimed for the three others on the couch, but another bullet whined past her head, this one blowing out a chunk of the wall by her ear. Flecks of wood bit at her and Miss Militia threw herself to the ground, rolling to her feet with a pistol raised.

Top of the stairs, a Merchant with a hunting rifle. Miss Militia planted three rubber bullets in his chest. He staggered back, hollering, and dropped his rifle down the stairs. She turned back to the ones on the couch. They were just getting back up to their feet.

Shotgun. She pumped a round into each, knocking them flat.

Voices yelled, shouted, echoing through the house. More Merchants. How many more? Miss Militia grit her teeth and ducked into the living room, skirting the edges to check the other doorway. It should have led to a kitchen, but the only thing being cooked here was meth. Stained beakers and chemicals covered countertops. More importantly, no Merchants were here. She crossed the kitchen, her boots clicking softly against the tiled floor. There was another room connected to the kitchen, a dining room, but there was no space to eat. The table was weighed down with stacks of plastic-wrapped meth. The dining room was also empty of Merchants.

Miss Militia let herself breath. That was the first floor. She went back to the living room - where everyone must have gathered for the show.

One of the men she had shot was trying to get up.

Baton. She cracked it against his skull, and this time he stayed down.

The other Merchants groaned, but made no move to rise. Miss Militia couldn't know how long they'd stay that way and she doubted she had the time to zip-tie each and every one. She moved for the girl who was curled into a ball on the ground, head covered and bent into trembling knees.

"Hey," Miss Militia said gently, shaking the girl's shoulder.

The girl didn't budge.

"Come on. Get up," Miss Militia said, stronger. She grabbed the girl's arm and pulled her upwards.

The girl wobbled onto her feet, blinking rapidly.

"When I say run, you run," Miss Militia said. "Okay?"

The girl stared back.

Miss Militia gave her a shake. "Okay?"

The girl nodded, recognition blooming in her eyes.

"Good. Stay close."

Miss Militia took the girl by the hand and tugged her out from the living room. She made sure the girl was safely behind her before she peeked around the corner, checking the stairs.

A hail of bullets rained down, and Miss Militia snapped back before one could nail her. She recognized the continuous drill of gunfire that buzzed insistently. A Micro UZI. And it was taking chunks out of her cover.

But whoever was shooting had no discipline. The magazine ran dry, and Miss Militia heard the click of an empty chamber.

She slid out from cover, practically lying down, and fired her pistol. She struck the shooter square between his eyes. He howled like a wounded animal, and tumbled all the way down the stairs with a crash.

Miss Militia stepped out, swept her sightlines, and then with things as clear as they would be, she shouted for the girl, "Run!"

The girl ran, wobbling as she did, but somehow stayed upright. She made it out the door.

Once the girl was clear, Miss Militia proceeded. Time for the second floor.

She took the steps slow, keeping to the wall to prevent the stairs from creaking, and the sights of her pistol sweeping across the railings above her.

No one popped up to mow her down. Small favors. Miss Militia made to pop her head up above the last stair before she heard something.

"-the fuck up."

"What?"

"I hear her."

Two of them. Down the hallway.

Miss Militia materialized another flashbang, pulled the pin, and tossed it overhand.

"Down!"

Down?

The flashbang went off, Miss Militia poked out with her gun.

Two Merchants laid in wait for her; they had taken cover behind an overturned table and though the flashbang had rattled them, they were hardly stunned. They opened fire, bullets accompanied with an unintelligible stream of slurs .

A flash of pain and Miss Militia threw herself back. She looked down and saw long red gash torn in her bicep. A graze. Miss Militia grit her teeth. She ought to count herself lucky the bullet hadn't hit her skull, but it was hard to feel good about that.

The gunfire petered out.

"Did we get her?"

Miss Militia emerged with an MP5, finger already depressing the trigger. Rubber bullets sprayed down the hall. They struck one Merchant square in the head, but the other was only clipped. He dropped behind cover, but stuck his gun over the table and fired blind.

The bullets went wide, up into the ceiling, raining plaster down on her, but that was far too close for comfort.

The MP5 flickered green, and when it resettled, it was loaded with live rounds.

She squeezed down on the trigger and didn't let go, sweeping the barrel back and forth over the top of the table. A burst of lead struck the pistol out of the Merchant's hand, and then tore into his hand itself. He howled, louder than ever.

Miss Militia pressed forward, not letting up the fire. Her bullets could have punched through the table, but that would kill them. Instead she settled for suppressing fire. Where anyone else would have needed to reload, her power replaced her magazine the instant it ran dry. The sound of gunfire drowned out all else, a continuous thrumming cacophony that bounced off the walls.

It stopped when Miss Militia reached the edge of the table.

One of the Merchants cowered beneath her, cradling a bloody hand. "I giv—"

In a blur of green, Miss Militia's baton whipped him in the chin, knocking him out. The other Merchant held one hand out, "wait, wait, wait," he stammered, but his other hand was reaching behind his back.

Another flash of green, and the baton shifted into a pistol. Rubber bullets. Only a foot away, Miss Militia shot thrice into the Merchant's stomach. He convulsed from the force and gagged, desperately trying to suck in air.

Miss Militia stepped over them and went on. Most of the doors on the second floor were boarded up, but there was one that wasn't. By all appearances, these two Merchants had been protecting it.

Miss Militia paused, staring at the door, gun in hand. Sweat dripped from her brow, her whole body ached, and her arm flared with pain each time she moved it. She shouldn't have slowed down. Shouldn't have stopped. The exhaustion was catching up to her.

Another mistake.

With a roar, Miss Militia kicked the door down and barged inside.

There was only one Merchant left waiting for her. The tattooed man. He had the other girl. He had one hand wrapped around her neck; the other pressed a revolver against her temple. He peered out from behind with just one eye. The pupil within was a black pinprick amongst white.

"Back the fuck up!" the tattooed man shouted.

Miss Militia didn't move. Didn't even blink. The man’s head was fixed firmly in the sights of her gun.

"I said back the fuck up!" He shook the girl in front him and her head lolled. She had a dazed look in her eyes. Drugged. "I'll blow her fucking brains out!"

"Kill her and I kill you," Miss Militia said softly.

"Bullshit," the tattooed man said, though he seemed to pale. "You're a hero. You're not going to kill me."

"I wouldn't normally," Miss Militia said. Her words came out slow. "But you're not giving me much choice. With a gun to that girl's head, I can't shoot you with a rubber bullet. It'd just make you pull the trigger. Gas is too slow. Same for tranquilizers. No, the only option you're giving me is a nine millimeter bullet directly through your cranium. It's the only way to put you down before you can pull the trigger."

The tattooed man clenched his teeth, sweat dripped from his brow. "That's… that's bullshit."

Miss Militia stared him down, the pistol steady in her hand.

The tattooed man looked away.

The gun dropped to his side, and he let the girl go.

"There—"

She put three rubber bullets into his chest and he dropped with a grunt.

Hannah let out a long sigh of relief, head tilting back. She took a moment to breathe, for her heart rate to even out.

In the distance she could hear sirens. The PRT.

And on the floor, the girl sobbed.

Hannah pulled herself together and went down to the girl. She put a hand on her back and whispered, "It's alright, now. You're safe."

The girl choked out another sob and hugged Hannah, clutched at her the way a newborn grasped for their mother. Hannah bit her lip. She could have stopped this sooner. So much sooner.

In a voice so quiet even the girl couldn’t hear it, Hannah whispered, “I’m sorry.”

**Author's Note:**

> Something I put together because people don't appreciate Miss Militia enough.
> 
> Thanks to somnolentSlumber for beta-ing and helping out with the gun details.


End file.
